


I Want You to Want Me

by emdop



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Job, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Geralt bites Jaskier a lot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Like So Many Feelings, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Sexual Tension, Smut, Sorry Not Sorry, The Author Regrets Nothing, author said himbo rights, but doesn't break skin, the inherent homoerotisism of swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26684791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emdop/pseuds/emdop
Summary: This is exactly what you think it is.“Have you ever thought of learning how to wield a sword?” Geralt asks him.Jaskier stops in his tracks and plucks a string a touch too hard. “I know how to use mine just fine, thank you very much. Not that that’s any of your business,” He grumbles, offended.“Not that sword,” Geralt huffs. “Do you know how to defend yourself?”“I know how to run away.”Geralt raises a brow. “Do you?”Jaskier gapes and stumbles back a few paces. “Excuse me for finding it hard to leave you alone. How dare I care about my friend!” He spins on his heals and walks forward.“Daggers would be a good place to start,” Geralt contemplates out loud and remembers there’s a spare one in his pack.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 471





	1. I need you to need me

Geralt loves silence. He clings to the moments of quiet he gets each day because they mean it’s peaceful, mostly safe. Humans are loud. Monsters are loud. And loudness means danger, so Geralt loves what doesn’t hurt him. Then there’s Jaskier who flits around him, buzzing through the peace like an annoying, persistent fly. Jaskier presents a constant cacophony of sounds. His lute always ready and waiting for him to pluck a few strings, his feet stomping on the ground, his voice murmuring lyrics or singing ballads, it goes on. He’s a flurry of movement with enough energy and recklessness to disrupt a whole forest. 

Geralt focuses his hearing on Roach’s steps instead of Jaskier’s lute strings. He’s been working on a ballad about Geralt and one of his hunts, entirely fictional of course, so Geralt’s opted to ignore him in order to keep his irritation to a minimum. He walks Roach slower than normal to keep her from overheating in the summer weather. Heat swelters around them and as the hours go by Jaskier strips layers of clothing. He prances in front of Geralt with his chemise undone and trousers rolled to his knees. Sweat gathers on Geralt’s lower back and along his hair line. The baby hairs on his face cling to the skin, plastered down by humidity and sweat. Fuck, Geralt thinks, this heat is misery incarnate. He considers doing the same as Jaskier and losing the extra layers, but his Witcher training warns him against traveling in a wild place with no armor. Based on the faint scent of water, they’re approximately two hours from a stream. Geralt daydreams of wading waist deep into a cool river. The mud between his toes and water soothing his heated skin. Jaskier bathing beside him, water glistening on his chest. 

“You’re fantasizing,” Jaskier says, then plucks a high note on his lute. 

Geralt stills. “What makes you say that?”

“The far away look in your eyes,” he replies, stepping around the sections of their path where the sun peaks through the trees. 

“Hmm,” Geralt gives a noncommittal grunt. “We’re two hours from water.”

“Bless,” Jaskier groans, “I need a bath or least a dip.”

Sparrows chatter above and Jaskier repeats their song, starting a beck and call repartee with them. Geralt listens to their surroundings: the fluttering of leaves through the wind above them, small rodents scurrying, birds nesting, and several foxes hunting. No sign of human activity or monsters. Geralt heaves a breath and gathers all his hair to tie it back. 

Jaskier turns around to face Geralt, walking backward, then stops. “Your hair,” he says, his face slack, “It’s in a pony tail.”

“It’s hot,” Geralt says. 

“I’ve never seen you do that,” he adds, still surprised by the simple act. 

Geralt shrugs. “I’ve lived a long time, Jaskier. I’ve had many hair styles.”

“I literally can’t imagine that,” he says, an excitement glimmers in his eyes, “you must describe them for me.”

He sighs, knowing he did this to himself. “When I was still human, I had hair much like yours. Through my twenties and thirties, I had a warrior’s wolf tail. Then I grew it out.”

“That’s three,” Jaskier says in a flat voice. “Does three really equal many to you?”

Sharp golden eyes narrow at Jaskier. “The three you get to know.”

“Oh, c’mon, Geralt!” He whines. “It’s not like hairstyles are personal information.”

“When it’s your defining attribute, yeah, it is personal. How many other white-haired Witcher’s do you know?”

Jaskier thinks on this even though they both know the answer. “Okay fine.” He waves a hand and starts playing his lute again—lost to the world. 

Geralt watches him: his swaying narrow hips and wide shoulders. His outfits always disguise his height and musculature by slimming his legs and poofing his sleeves, so it’s anyone’s guess what Jaskier’s true lines are. Sans his doublet, his back muscles catch the light and lead Geralt’s eyes to the tender bit of skin at the base of his neck. The light fabric of Jaskier’s chemise clings to his skin with sweat and Geralt has the urge to touch the soft material, feel the sweat and the fine silk on his fingers. Draw Jaskier close and breathe in his musk and perfumes that on occasion make Geralt’s mouth water. 

One hour away from water, Geralt concludes as the sound of it hitting rocks enters his ears, although only if he concentrates on it hard. His mind always goes back to Jaskier and his body, his hands, his voice. Geralt’s skin prickles and gives one last ditch effort to put it out of his head. He checks on Roach and gleans that she’s doing well, thirsty, but they’ll be able to fix that soon. 

He has to take inventory of his potions and plan for his next hunt. His leather armor could use some oiling and there’s a few rips in his shirts that need mending. He goes through his check list while Jaskier hums ahead of him. The notes sound unfamiliar and Geralt wonders if this is the new songs he’s been tinkering with. He hadn’t been paying close enough attention earlier to know for sure and considers for a moment simply asking Jaskier if the song is new, but decide against it. Jaskier would never let it go, that one, Geralt hadn’t been paying attention, and that two, he expressed interest in his music. He continues to watch the bard, noticing how his hands manipulate the string on his lute so well and the subtle sway of his hips to the beat of the song. 

Geralt looses himself in observing Jaskier. He memorizes the way his chemise drapes over his shoulder, the neckline tossed to the side so one shoulder glistens in the sunlight. Shadows collect along his collarbones and hair dusts his chest. 

“Gerralltt,” Jaskier whines, “How much longer to the water?”

He takes a second to gather information from their surroundings and estimates twenty minutes. “Half hour.” It’s best to round up with Jaskier that way he won’t get too impatient too fast. 

They continue traveling while Geralt runs through potion ingredients and training drills in his head interrupted by visions of Jaskier doing these things along side him. Jaskier’s hands stripping petals from flowers, squeezing a sword handle, wrapped around a pestle to grind plants. They practice footwork, skirting around each other until one strikes, their swords clattering together.

“Have you ever thought of learning how to wield a sword?” Geralt asks him. 

Jaskier stops in his tracks and plucks a string a touch too hard. “I know how to use mine just fine, thank you very much. Not that that’s any of your business,” He grumbles, offended. 

“Not that sword,” Geralt huffs. “Do you know how to defend yourself?”

“I know how to run away.”

Geralt raises a brow. “Do you?”

Jaskier gapes and stumbles back a few paces. “Excuse me for finding it hard to leave you alone. How dare I care about my friend!” He spins on his heals and walks forward. 

“Daggers would be a good place to start,” Geralt contemplates out loud and remembers there’s a spare one in his pack. 

Jaskier tilts his head to the side so Geralt can see his profile. “Is this your way of offering to teach me?”

“If you’re willing to listen.” He digs through the leather pack attached to Roach, unbuttoning the secret pocket to retrieve the dagger. 

“You say that as if listening isn’t what I do for a living.” Jaskier adjust his lute’s strap on his shoulder and resets his fingers to form a new chord. 

“You sing,” Geralt says, unearthing the plain dagger. Dark leather wraps around the hilt and the silver glints in the sunlight.

“Where do you think I get the inspiration for my singing?”

“Lies.”

“You pronounced that wrong. It’s creative license.” He over articulates the last two words and pinches his thumb and forefinger together as if he’s making a real point. Jaskier slows to walk directly beside Roach and catches Geralt’s eye. 

“Hmm,” he says, offering the handle of the dagger to Jaskier. “Here. Get used to holding one. Don’t cut yourself.”

Jaskier takes the blade, twirling it through his fingers and flipping it over his palm. 

“It’s not a toy,” Geralt says. The gruff tiredness in his voice makes him sure he became Vesemir for a moment. 

“I know, Geralt. I’m not quite the weapons virgin you believe me to be.”

He rolls his eyes and encourages Roach to continue forward.

Soon, they reach the river bank. Jaskier groans his relief and runs toward the water. 

“Wait!” Geralt shouts, dismounting Roach and grabbing Jaskier by his chemise in under five seconds. “The river could be unsafe.”

Jaskier stops flailing in Geralt’s grip and plants his feet where they are, allowing Geralt to suss the area. Finding no threats, he nods and before he knows it, Jaskier’s shirt hits him in the face. Looking up after realizing what’s happened, his companion’s trousers and boots already lay in a pile. Jaskier’s naked lithe body splashes into the middle of the slow moving river. Geralt remains still for a long while. Long enough that Roach starts doing their routine on her own.


	2. I'm Begging You to Beg Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier continue being dumbasses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did what I wanted with canon here. I don't know if pixies exist in the Witcher world, but I modeled mine after the ones in Harry Potter. If there's something you'd like to read in this fic, lemme know. I don't have a plot. Also, I know nothing about swords or how to use them and since we're here for the eventual smut, I didn't feel like researching anything.  
> Enjoy my nonsense!

Geralt’s brain can process information at rate which most humans can’t. Subtle ticks in movement, changes in breath patterns, even temperature, but when it comes to Jaskier, he’s clueless. Monsters and most humans are simple; they have wants and needs on which they act and face consequences, good or bad. Then they learn how to avoid bad outcomes. None of his knowledge helps him with Jaskier. He punches him and he sticks to him even harder, he scowls at him and earns a sunny smile, he yells at him for endangering himself and is then treated to the sight of Jaskier’s naked body. What. The. Actual. Fuck. Geralt thinks. He runs through what he knows of Jaskier.

The bard presents a litany of contradictions that Geralt assumes must follow some kind of logic. Jaskier loves music, but has little patience most other bards. He loves deeply and desires a myriad of people yet chooses to spend most of his time with an unfeeling Witcher. He insists on wearing fine clothes even when the occasion calls for durable, expendable ones. Jaskier demands attention, but gets flustered when Geralt gives it to him. Nothing makes sense and his carefully constructed rules never apply to Jaskier. 

Geralt sighs, shakes his head and folds the shirt that Jaskier threw at his head beside the bard’s trousers. He finds Roach and relieves her of the their bags. She huffs at him and shakes her mane, throwing her judgement at him. He snorts at her and undoes his armor. A cool breeze follows the river and flutters Geralt’s shirt and hair, cooling the sweat on his lower back. He hums and relaxes into the comfort of ambient temperature. Jaskier splashes in the river, prattling on about his day as if Geralt wasn’t literally there. 

“Dear Witcher,” he says, “the most oppressive heat was dampening my day and stifling my creative whims, but this, this makes up for it.” He floats on his back, eyes closed, happily sighing. His hips dip below water, covering his most intimate bit and Geralt is grateful for the moment of modesty. He never thought one person could be so distracting. 

Geralt doesn’t respond, knowing that Jaskier doesn’t need him to, so he goes about unlacing his boots and unbuttoning his trousers. When he lifts his shirt above his head, he notices the silence and leans into it, grateful for respite. Trousers removed and naked except for his small clothes, he wades into the river where he finds Jaskier staring at him. 

“What?” He asks, glancing behind him to search for danger. 

“Nothing,” Jaskier smirks. “The White Wolf was an apt name to give you.”

Geralt grunts. “Only if you agree with your lies.”

“Of course I agree, I said them.”

“So you admit they’re lies.”

Jaskier laughs, “Only the minor details are lies and those aren’t important.” He pauses, “Besides, there’s something much more pressing to discuss.”

Geralt waits, resisting his urge to roll his eyes. 

The side of Jaskier’s mouth quirks into a cocky grin. “Where in the world did you get those briefs? Very cheeky, Geralt.”

“I made them,” Geralt says, monotone. 

Jaskier gapes. “And who was your model? The courtesans of Passiflora?”

“It was all of my fabric. Had to make due.”

Jaskier chuckles into his fist. “Why not go buy underclothes?”

“With what coin?” He growls. 

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier sighs, “the pre-bard days. The people did not yet understand their savior’s greatness.”

Geralt makes a face and says nothing, choosing to dunk his head underwater instead. He pulls his hair out of the tie and runs his fingers through the strands, ridding it of dirt and possible monster viscera. With that done, he returns to their bags and retrieves a bar of soap. The river may be no warm bath, but it’ll get the job done. He grabs a few other items of clothing that need washing and returns to the river. Geralt goes about his business cleaning the clothes then himself. He slips out of his briefs and scrubs them with soap.

So caught up in his own chores, he forgets that Jaskier is there. Geralt gathers the clean clothes heads for the shore to find a nice branch to hang them on. A sharp breath draws his attention and he turns to find a blushing bard staring at him. 

“Is the real reason you make your own pants because you have the thickest of asses?”

“No.” Geralt would very much like to disappear, but a deeper part of him preens at Jaskier’s eyes enjoying the sight of his body. He decides not to examine that too closely and focuses on drying the clothing. He searches for an appropriate branch, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and that little deep part of him surfaces again. He imagines what Jaskier sees. His tall, broad frame, dripping wet, glinting in the sunlight. He supposes he understands the blush, but he also know Jaskier sees his scars, evidence of weak moments and the mutations. People want to fuck him in the same way they want to screw other monsters. For the novelty, for the release, and to fuck something that could kill them. High off their own mortality and taboos. He sighs and slips on his damp small clothes. 

Jaskier surfaces and dries himself with the chemise Geralt folded earlier. They dress in silence and bask in the sunlight and cool breezes. Most moments with Jaskier are easy despite their confusing nature. Geralt knows Jaskier won’t suddenly turn on him even when he’s being a prick. A constant in a world of temporary. 

Roach wonders over to them, declaring it time to move along. Geralt prepares to travel again, leaving off a few of his armor pieces. Vesemir may disapprove, but he’s not here and it’s stupid hot. Geralt starts to mount Roach when Jaskier breaks the silence. 

“Did you mean it when you said that you’d teach how to use a dagger?”

“Witchers don’t offer services for free unless they mean it.”

“Weird way to say yes,” Jaskier jabs, then straightens his shoulders, “I want to learn.”

Geralt nods and pats Roach to thank her for her patience, then faces Jaskier. “Spread your legs.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath and coughs. With her cheeks colored, he gives Geralt a skeptical look. 

“You need a wide stance to remain steady in a fight,” he says, nudging one of Jaskier’s feet with his own. 

“Okay," Jaskier says in whisper and obeys Geralt’s command.

“Bend your knees.” Geralt circles Jaskier, assessing, looking for weak points.

“The last time a man said that to me we doing a very different activity,” Jaskier tires to joke, but the lightness doesn’t quite reach his voice. 

Geralt shakes his head and forces his mind not to picture said activities. “It’ll make you more agile. Bandits like to go for the knees. Makes their mark easy prey.”

Jaskier swallows and adjusts his stance. “Like this?”

Geralt nods. “Now, practice getting used to that position so it come second nature.”

“What do I do with the dagger?” Jaskier pats his pockets, until he finds the one he stashed the weapon inside. 

“Nothing. You can’t be trusted with sharp objects yet,” Geralt responds. He turns away from his companion and mounts Roach. 

“Then why’d you give me this?” he asks. Geralt assumes when he says “this” he means the blade he’s no doubt wildly brandishing in the air, almost cutting himself. 

“Hmm, an oversight.”

Jaskier scoffs and walks beside him and Roach as they find the path again. “Does the no sharp objects rule apply to needles and scissors too?”

“Yes.”

“Ah-ha! Then you can stitch your own wounds from now on!”

Geralt gives Jaskier side eye. “I lived a lifetime before I met you. Most of my wounds don’t need stitching anyway.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “If it’s deep enough to see muscle, it needs stitches.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Nooo,” Jaskier sings, plucking a string on his lute. 

Roach huffs, shushing them and they walk in silence, following the beaten down dirt path to the next village. Geralt suspects they’ll have drowner problems considering they’re closeness to water and a little spark of irritation bursts in his gut, because, fuck, he hates drowners. 

The forest lightens as they more forward. Trees spread further way from each other and more shrubs pop up. Geralt listens for civilization while Jaskier tunes his lute and mutters about the humid weather screwing with it.   
They reach the village before sundown and Geralt hops off Roach, walking beside her while they travel through the main road. Few people remain outside as they close shop and gather their children for supper. The villagers eye him and Jaskier for a moment, but continue on their business unwilling to put energy into banishing a Witcher and his odd friend. 

“Well isn’t that a welcome greeting,”Jaskier says. 

Geralt hums and spots an inn down a side road. He leads them to the stable and bribes the stableboy with an extra coin to treat Roach well. Jaskier flits straight to the inn, excited to be around people. Geralt sighs and prepares himself of the noise and the smells. Jaskier bursts into the poorly lit room, smiling and ready to put on a show despite the long day of walking. Geralt shuffles to the bar. The bartender eyes the Witcher and waits for him to make a request. 

“A pint,” he says and throws a coin onto the counter. The bartender nods and pours an ale into a mostly clean mug. “You have any monster problems around here?” Geralt asks. 

“Nest of drowners to the east and there’s a pixie out back that keeps eating my food supply. There’s a free night’s stay in it for you if you can kill the bastard.”  
Geralt nods. “Where’s your alderman? I’ll deal with drowners on my way out of town.”

The bartender points toward the main road. “Take a right and follow the stench of hypocrisy until the road forks. House’s on the left.”  
Geralt throws the bartender another coin and thanks him. “Mind showing me toward the pixie?” He follows him to the back door and walks to a neat shed filled with flour bags, canned fruits, stalks of grain and root vegetables. Out here, he can hear the muffled sounds of the tavern. People moving, chairs scooting, murmurs of conversation, and Jaskier singing. He focuses on Jaskier for a moment to make sure he hasn’t gotten himself into trouble just yet. Singing low in voice, Jaskier twirls his way through one of the dirtiest limricks Geralt has ever heard. A woman giggles and Geralt promptly stops paying attention. 

“Know anything else about this pixie?”

“Stay still and quiet enough and he’ll come around. I’ve got to get back to the bar,” he points toward the inn then toward Geralt, “Don’t steal my shit.” He leaves. 

Geralt huffs and finds a warmth in his chest toward the bartender. He likes him. Reminds him of Lambert. He returns to the task at hand and searches the small shed for signs of the pixie. Some minutes later, he comes up with no evidence of foul play other than a mouse chewing through the burlap of a flour bag. Geralt shews it away. 

“You won’t like that anyway,” he grumbles at it.   
Something tugs one of the swords on his back and he whips around to cut the creature down but nothing is before him. He growls. Fucking pixies. “Show yourself.”

A squeaky voice sounds behind me. “You’re a quick beastie, aren’t you?”

Geralt waits a moment, letting the pixie feel at ease, then spins and grabs it by the throat. “You have no idea.”

It’s little blue body squirms in his grasp and it’s wings buzz. Big round eyes stare and plead with him. “Let me go sir. I promise I won’t cause any trouble.”

Geralt frowns. “I’m Witcher, not a dunce.”

The creature shrugs. “Who says you can’t be both.”

Bearing his teeth, he pulls a small blade from his waist and sticks the pointy end between his hand the pixie’s chin. “You should be nicer to someone who knows how to kill you.”

The thing chokes a laugh. “You sure about that. Human blades do nothing to my skin.”

“And I’m not human,” he says , sticking the blade further into the pixie, pricking him. 

His wide eyes almost burst with fear. The Witcher puts more pressure on the pixie’s throat, with his hand and the blade. “Leave here and never come back. 

Otherwise I will wet my dagger with your blood.”

The pixie nods and Geralt let him go. It flies out of the shed without another word and Geralt hopes he won’t have to kill him. 

Inside the inn, Geralt nods at the bartender to indicate the deeds been done and shows the end of the dagger with little of the pixie’s blood as proof. 

“Your room’s upstairs. Third door on the left. Sorry but we don’t have a room for your bard.”

Geralt shrugs. “That’s his problem.” No need to tell the bartender that they usually share a room anyway. He heads to his room, thinking of warm mornings awaking next to Jaskier. His soft body pressed against him, breathing slowly and his heart beat filling Geralt’s ears. His hands always go to touch Jaskier, follow the path from his shoulder to his hip, but he never does. Some precious things shouldn’t be touched by monsters.


	3. I'd Love You to Love Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the pining

After two ales, Geralt heads upstairs, leaving Jaskier to awe the masses. He catches his eye and nods to him; Jaskier tosses him a wink and a little thrill goes up his spine, but his face stays the same and he ignores the giggles of the women behind him who thought the bard’s affections were for them. 

He closes his room’s door, which offers respite to his ears, but if he concentrates, even a little, he can hear Jaskier’s singing and his lute. His room comprises a small bed, one end table, a washbasin, and mirror, and a four-drawer dresser. The brown rug in the middle of the room smells of feet and dust, but Geralt’s used to tuning out these sorts of things. He removes his armor, starting with his swords and arm pieces and ending with his boots. Free from his confines, he stretches, raising his arms above his head. His bones pop and muscles tense, but it feels good, relaxing. He bends his knee and pulls his heel to his butt, then does the same with the other leg. Stretching like this always makes him ultra aware of his body. The damage monsters have done and what he’s done on his own. Geralt removes his shirt and traces scars with his fingers, noticing where nerves have gone numb and where they’re extra sensitive. An old one near his armpit hurts most when it’s humid and itches throughout winter; it always draws his attention, and he doesn’t even remember how he got it. 

Geralt finds a semi-clean spot on the floor to sit, and he hauls himself into a comfortable meditation position. Swords beside him and facing toward the door, Geralt allows his mind to collapse into the simple thoughts of breathing. In and out. Inhale. Exhale. The rise and fall of his chest, familiar and comforting. I am still breathing, he thinks. Downstairs, cheers break out, snapping his concentration and he finds himself unwilling to go through calming his mind again. Restlessness hums through his body and he paces the room.

He starts on tomorrow morning’s chores for something better to do, cleaning, polishing, and caring for his armor and weapons. He sorts through his bag, organizes everything and repairs the small tear on the bag’s side. Since his sowing supplies are ready, he goes about mending a few shirts. The process distracts him, but his muscles remain tight. Geralt forces his mind to concentrate on the soft fabric laid in his lap, and eventually it’s good as new. It gets folded and returned to where the rest of his clothes reside. His eyes catch the sight of his comb among his things, so he uses it, hearing Jaskier’s voice in his head. “Really, Geralt, take care of your hair if you’re going to wear it this long. A conditioning oil would do wonders for it, or maybe even a comb. You have one of those, right?”

The comb’s teeth work through the knots in his hair until it runs smoothly. In his reorganizing of their bags, he found a bottle of hair oil and pours a small amount into his palm. He threads it through the white strands. Geralt glances in the mirror to see if the bard was right, and aside from it being a tad neater and shinier, there’s not much of a difference. He shrugs. With nothing else to do, he lies on the bed and contemplates visiting Roach. 

Geralt listens to the last of Jaskier’s set and looses track of him in the shuffle of people moving around the tavern. He’s still searching for him downstairs when a soft knock sounds at his door and Jaskier steps inside. Geralt props himself on his elbows. 

“Oh, wow,” Jaskier sighs, twirling through his post-show high, “the people here know how to appreciate music.”

Geralt doesn’t reply, knowing Jaskier will spew his stream of consciousness for the next thirty minutes. 

“They liked the new ballad. One fine lady described it as ‘moving and unforgettable’ and I have to say, I agree with her. Will we stay another night? If we do, I’d like to perform it again. There are a few parts I want to tinker with. I can’t decide whether I want the ending to be quiet or loud. What do you think? A quiet ending can be very moving for a ballad and it fits the lyrics, but there’s something about raising the volume at the end that gets people reaching for their purses.”

Jaskier continues talking and Geralt listens. He sits, letting his legs dangle off the edge of the bed, while he watches Jaskier prepare for the end of the day and bed. Geralt remains still while Jaskier flits about the room, and he hums at the appropriate moments. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, looking at him, “are you listening?”

“Yes,” he responds.

“Good, thought you were meditating there for a second.” He removes his doublet and takes his time, folding it just so to avoid wrinkles. “You got that calm look on your face.”

“I have a calm look?” Geralt says. It comes out like a statement, but he knows that Jaskier will know it’s a question. 

Jaskier laughs. “I had a hard time believing it when I saw it for the first time too.” He changes into sleep clothes, chatting about his performance and his plans for the next day. Jaskier comes close and waves his hand. “Scooch.”

Geralt gives him a look. 

“C’mon, you won’t make me sleep on the floor, will you?” His hands perch on his hips. 

“I paid for this room,” Geralt says, unmoving. 

“Yes,” Jaskier responds, impatience lacing his voice, “and I thank you. Now, move. Early start tomorrow and all.”

Geralt huffs. 

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something more, but then confusion passes over his face, distracted. “Geralt, did you comb your hair?”

“I’m known to do that once in a while.”

“You used my hair oil!” Surprise and astonishment color his features and voice.

Geralt shrugs. “I hope that’s okay.”

Jaskier reaches out and threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Tingles flow on Geralt’s scalp and down his neck and anywhere Jaskier’s fingers connect. A pleasant warmth spreads through his entire body and he resists the urge to lean into his touch. 

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, then swallows, “Looks good.” Hand still in his hair, they make eye contact and tension holds them. 

Geralt imagines turning his head into the touch and pressing light kisses to Jaskier’s palm. Their breathing steady and the quiet easy to sink into, they stay close to one another. Jaskier pulls his hand through the strands of hair, creating a lovely tugging on Geralt’s scalp. He hums. Jaskier wets his lips. 

A crashing sound from below knocks them out of their reverie and Jaskier shakes his head. “We must get your own oil. Your hair texture differs from mine.” He continues to babble while Geralt remains dazed. He doesn’t know what to do or how to parse through all the sensations in his body, so he puts his focus on Jaskier instead.

“Now, would you move the fuck over,” he finishes. 

“Fine,” Geralt mumbles and gives Jaskier room to join him on the small bed. 

Jaskier sits at the top of the bed, his knees to his chest. “Would you take off the comforter?”

Geralt stands and is halfway through pulling the blanket off the bed before he realizes he should have told Jaskier to do it himself. Oh, well, he sighs. He folds it and sets it atop the dresser. Jaskier snuggles underneath the sheet, closing his eyes when he’s comfy. 

Geralt resists the urge to yawn and decides sleeping sounds damn good. He drops his trousers and crawls into bed. In getting under the sheet, their legs slip together. 

“You’re not wearing trousers.” Jaskier states. 

Geralt twitches an eyebrow. “Got a problem with it? Get your own room.”

“It’s fine,” Jaskier says, then spins and puts his back to Geralt. 

He huffs and closes his eyes. Sleep comes easily with Jaskier’s scent and warmth surrounding him. 

Darkness fills the room when Geralt opens his eyes sometime later. He feels pleasant; warm and relaxed, he listens to the silence and the soft breaths from Jaskier, asleep. He estimates that dawn’s a few hours away, and he has time to fall back asleep. Only his warmth turns into stifling heat and his body reacts to the blistering temperature, waking him with no return. Jaskier’s weight settles onto his chest where he curls, peaceful. Their legs tangled together and the skin to skin contact has Geralt’s blood surging. Tender touches strike him as a comfort and trust he doesn’t deserve, yet craves with his whole being. The noise in the back of Geralt’s head quiets and he allows himself to know Jaskier. He lets his Witcher senses gather every piece of information they can about him: the softness of his hair; smooth, delicate skin; his human warmth, mixing with his own until little bumps prickle on his arms; Jaskier’s even breath and how it coasts over his chest, more goose pimples follow its path; and the way he smells. Underneath the sweat and dirt from the road, there’s Jaskier, his honey and grass scent mixing with his bright citrus perfume. It’s hard to get a hold of citrus on the road, so how Jaskier does it, he has no idea. 

Jaskier nuzzles further into his chest, and Geralt dares to hook his arm around him. Jaskier’s shoulder molds to Geralt's hand, fitting in his grasp like he was made for him. Geralt doesn’t regret waking up, if only because he got this moment. Trusted and valued in the embrace of someone who knows him, even if his songs suggest otherwise. Sometimes gifts are undeserved, and yet we get them anyway. Geralt supposes that’s what makes them gifts. 

Jaskier shifts and his mouth opens, leaking a spot of drool onto his bare chest. Gross. Geralt doesn’t move to wake him or wipe the saliva since this is far from the grossest thing to touch his person. He finds that he doesn’t care, although he doesn’t mind when Jaskier moves again and closes his mouth.

Welcome touch given for free isn’t something Geralt knows well, and a flash of doubt about doing it wrong snakes down his spine. He drops his hand from Jaskier’s shoulder and vows to try sleeping. The first signs of dawn’s approach comes through the tiny window in the corner of their room, and Geralt gives up on that plan, instead choosing to wait this out. Is it so bad to accept Jaskier’s touch? After all, he was the one who insisted on sharing a bed with him. Jaskier knows the world through touch; his hands always caressing, feeling, holding. Perhaps Geralt can be another thing Jaskier knows. 

Geralt pauses at that thought. Does this mean he wants the bard to touch him? And he’s never been one to receive and not give, so this implies he wants to touch as well. Fuck. He wants to memorize Jaskier’s body with his hands and map his most sensitive spots. He wants to follow the lines of his shoulder and legs, wrap his hand around his knee and pull him close to kiss. He wants to hold his weight and rock against him, their bodies moving in time with each other until pleasure falters their rhythm. He wants. Witchers aren’t supposed to want. 

Jaskier shivers in his sleep, so Geralt, without thinking, wraps both arms around him. Panic surges through him and opens his eyes wider. Hundreds of little details flood his brain, most unhelpful. Jaskier belongs here, the possessive part of Geralt’s brains says, and he tries to shake the thought away. Only it doesn’t work. He circles his want of Jaskier, stalking it until he knows its form. He steps toward it and reaches. Quaking in his grasp, it shimmers and shivers, begging for more. Warmth curls in his chest and slinks down to his crotch. Licks of desire go through his body and he holds Jaskier tighter on instinct. Little muffled mewls come from the bard and Geralt’s cock twitches, almost full. He needs more, craves more. 

Geralt can’t stay here like this. His body wants release and it would be faster and more effective to give it what it wants rather than wait out the erection. He sighs and slides out from under Jaskier, managing not to wake him. Geralt sits in bed and contemplates his options. His feet touch the cool ground, although the heat from the approaching day pours into the room, unnoticeable to a human, but Geralt knows it’ll be another hot one. Searching for heat, Jaskier curls forward and hugs onto Geralt’s hip and waist. He can’t escape, and Jaskier’s soft touches have him on edge. 

The world narrows into only him and Jaskier and his hand dipping into his waist band. He pulls himself out, fully hard and leaking. The basic touch has him drawing in a sharp breath. Sensitive and eager, he knows this won’t last long, so he grips tighter and gets his nerves used to the touch. Soft skin against callouses. Wet against dry. Desperate against steady. His hips beg to move forward, to pump into someone, preferably the beautiful creature clinging to him. He imagines what it would be like to guide his cock into Jaskier’s tight, wet hole. The way his muscles would clench around him and suck him inside. He already knows they’d fit together. 

His hand twists at the top and drags down slow, the way he likes. He focuses on Jaskier behind him and the sound of his breath. He’d like to hear him panting and begging and wanting. Geralt knows he could satisfy him and that Jaskier could do the same for him. He’s heard the sounds Jaskier’s suitors make through the walls, the delicious, heartbreaking, incredible sounds. Oh, the noises he could drag from that beautiful mouth. His name repeatedly, the pleases, the gasps, the moans. Geralt’s orgasm surprises him, and the release breaks through his careful demeanor. A groan rumbles in his chest and he closes his eyes. 

Back in reality, he leans to grab his discarded clothes and wipes his hand and prick, then throws the garment away. He’ll wash it in the morning. Geralt hovers over Jaskier to get to the other side of the bed. He lays in about the same position he awoke, Jaskier still pressed to his side. Sleep takes him under before guilt can do the same.


	4. Didn't I See You Cryin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt faces his feelings..sort of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no knowledge on sword fighting or sparing, so sorry about making it up. Just go with it; pretend I know what I'm talking about. Anyway enjoy this chapter update even though it's VERY late.

Geralt wakes in a sudden and desperate way that hurdles his chest forward and quakes his shoulders. The sharp intake of breath startles Jaskier out of sleep. 

“Everything okay?” He mumbles to Geralt, stretching his arms above his head. 

Geralt nods and shifts to drape his legs off the mattress, mirroring the way he sat earlier this morning in the velvety coating of dawn. Memories sink inside him and he clenches a fist, allowing his nails to bite into his calloused skin—hands made for violence, physical and emotional. Hurt what matters, destroy what fights. So where does that leave Jaskier? 

His friend reaches for him, still warm and pliant from sleep. Jaskier touches Geralt’s back, running his nails lightly over the skin. They catch on the scars, but it’s gentle and pleasant. 

“Hey,” he says, deep in his voice, “what are you thinking?” 

Geralt stares at his hands, then turns to catch Jaskier’s eyes. “You asked me once what Witchers do when they retire.”

Jaskier nods and waits for Geralt to put his words in order, still scratching his back. His hair flops into his eyes and he uses the other hand to push it away. A line from the crumpled sheets starts at his cheek and ends near his collar bone—Geralt follows it with his eyes. 

“I told you we don’t retire. We grow slow and die. Now I wonder if that’s true or if it’s because they made our bodies with violence, so they must end with it. What is purpose if not destiny?”

“Hmm,” Jaskier thinks on his words and sits upright. The sheet pools at his hips. “A constant in the universe is change, so purposes and destinies change too. We are made of choices and consequences that chart our course in life and you, my dear Geralt, have choices.”

“Pretty words, Bard.” He huffs, but lets them soak him, coloring his scars. Choices. Him alone in his hands or Jaskier. His soft smile thumps against Geralt’s heart. 

“Doesn’t make them less true,” Jaskier says.

“Truth. What a novel concept for you,” Geralt says. His natural gruffness edges the words more than he intends, so it comes out dismissive. Regret pulls his shoulders tight and his brain scrambles to retrieve a proper apology or something. Anything to help knit together what he’s always ripping apart, usually by accident. 

Jaskier laughs. “Oh, I know cold hard truth very well. We’re old friends and I can’t deny I see the world in brighter shades; It’s never done me wrong. It brought me to you and that’s not something I’ll regret.”

“Is that what you’re calling getting drunk and boo’d off the stage now?”

“It’s the moments after that I count,” Jaskier says, patient and relaxed. “When I spoke to you. When I followed you. Sang of you.”

Geralt thinks on this. He plays through meeting Jaskier, letting destiny shove him onto his lap, the following camaraderie, and now, this moment. Geralt didn’t choose it so much as it happened to him. “The world doesn’t give Witchers choices. It creates us then abandons us.”

Jaskier scoots toward Geralt and rests his head on his shoulder, then presses his lips to it. Soft and tender, Jaskier’s lips burn their mark on his skin. “I’ll always choose you,” Jaskier whispers.

They rest in the quiet while Geralt meditates on what Jaskier’s said. With a rumble of his stomach, Jaskier breaks the silence and pokes at Geralt’s mouth to get his attention. 

“Careful, they say Witchers bite,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier scoffs. “Please, that’s mere rumor,” then gives him a shit-eating grin. “Though, what they say about bards is true; they’re biters.” He sinks his teeth into Geralt's shoulder enough to leave spit and a shallow mark behind, but not enough to hurt. 

Blood rushes to Geralt’s cock, and he responds to Jaskier with a raised eyebrow because he doesn’t trust his voice to sound normal. Jaskier tugs on his hand. 

“Food. Now.”

Geralt hums and stands, searching or his clothes. He slips on his trousers and Jaskier goes about his morning routine, caring for his teeth and hair. Geralt finds the shirt he threw into the corner this morning, stained with his cum. His heart beats faster and shoves it into his bag before Jaskier can notice. He digs through their bags, looking for the shirt he cleaned in the river yesterday. 

“Not that I mind, in fact, I approve,” Jaskier says, gesturing to Geralt’s bare chest, “but you can’t go to the dinning hall with no shirt.” 

“I’m trying to find one,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier pulls the dagger he gave him from his pocket and twirls it through his fingers. “Will we start my lessons today?”

“Don’t do that,” Geralt says, grabbing the hand Jaskier holds the knife in and stills it. “Lessen over.”

Jaskier’s eager smile falls and Geralt suppresses a sigh. “Here,” he says, adjusting Jaskier’s grip. “You were holding it like a saber. There’s no need to compensate for the weight of a long blade.” 

Tension releases from Jaskier’s wrist, easing the muscles and tendons. He rolls his wrist, making a figure eight with the tip of the blade. “That’s easier.”

Geralt nods. Their closeness screams at him, and he clears his throat and takes a step backward. His half-nakedness rests on his chest like a heavy amulet, and he wishes he could break the chain and throw it far away. He’s not supposed to notice the heat of Jaskier’s body and the light freckles on his cheeks or the little dents in his lip from biting too often. 

Jaskier speaks, shaking Geralt out of his nonsense. “Is that it?” He wields the dagger more, showing a surprising grace even if it’s dangerous behavior. 

“No,” Geralt says. “Next, you learn how to stab something.”

Jaskier grunts. “Don’t you just push forward?” He thrusts his arm straight, stabbing the air. 

“If you don’t learn proper technique, you’re liable to hurt yourself and others. And by others, I mean me.” Geralt shakes his head and returns to searching for a shirt. At the bottom of his bag, he pulls a clean one out and slips it over his head. Geralt moves on to his usual morning routine, assuming their conversation over. Underneath his breath and almost too quiet for a Witcher to hear, Jaskier mutters, “Wish you’d stab me.”

Geralt freezes, wondering what in world Jaskier could mean by such a ridiculous statement. Does he mean it literally? He cringes from that thought because he refuses to believe that soft and kind Jaskier wants him to brutalize him in a such a manner, particularly when he knows Geralt doesn’t enjoy being violent. Does this mean… does this mean Jaskier wants him to fuck him? A pleasant shiver goes up his spine. He imagines them fucking and abandons the idea. There’s no way that’s what Jaskier meant, and he didn’t intend Geralt to hear him. Geralt lets it go and collects enough coin for breakfast for the two of them, exiting the room, leaving Jaskier to scramble after him. 

The inn offers a modest breakfast of porridge, two eggs, and a slice of toast. Geralt will have to hunt for more protein later if they travel far today. Although, judging from Jaskier’s distracted state that won’t be happening. He flits from table to table singing old folk tales and children’s rhymes. The few children in the place sing with him, and a side of Jaskier that Geralt knows exists but rarely sees emerges: the one that loves young ones—An innocent version of Jaskier that doesn’t sleep his way through courts or gets into fights over Witchers. He imagines Jaskier’s life if they didn’t meet. Jaskier would be in a court singing songs of the royalty’s grandeur while lacing each word with double meanings. Once found out, he’d have to flee in the night to a neighboring kingdom, starting the entire cycle again. He’d find a count, duchess, or lord to care for him, marry into wealth, and spend his days singing love songs. Who chooses a Witcher’s life over comfort and stability? Jaskier, apparently. 

The bard finishes his song and wanders over and takes a seat opposite of him. He eats the last few bites of his now cold breakfast and flashes his excited eyes at Geralt. 

“We must go to the market today,” he says. 

“We should move on today,” Geralt responds. He takes a sip of ale and watches as Jaskier's brain comes up with a counter argument. 

“C’mon! Come with me. I know you need potion supplies. Swallow’s been running low for a month.” Jaskier points a finger at Geralt then crosses his arm over his chest, knowing he’s won the argument. 

“Fine,” Geralt grumbles. 

Jaskier claps. “Perfect! Let’s go.” He swings his lute over his shoulder and walks out of the inn, confident that Geralt will follow him. And he’s right. 

They walk to the busiest part of the street where vendors set up shop and shout their deals at the newcomers. Cloth, perfumes, vegetables, leathers, tools display on carts, tables, and baskets. Local villagers haggle over prices, make deals, and greet one another. Sound crashes over Geralt and he drowns in it. Loudness comes from every angle and threats hide behind each dark corner. He hears the scrape of metal as the blacksmith sharpens swords, the squeaky wheel of a cart moving behind him, the rustle of fabric, the crunch of a hundred feet moving, and so many voices. Geralt curls his shoulders inward, wishing he could shrink. 

Jaskier grabs ahold of the fabric near Geralt’s elbow and drags him toward a particular vendor. Set out on the table in front of them, lays a myriad of holsters, scabbards, and weapons holders. Ornate designs cover them, making them luxury goods instead of basic supplies. 

“Ooh, Geralt! These are beautiful, don’t you think?” he exclaims and doesn’t wait for an answer. He picks up a small dagger holster with little flowers embroidered in the leather. “This would be perfect for the dagger you gave me.” 

The vendor smiles at Jaskier. “You have excellent taste. My partner embroidered that piece. He said it was for a handsome gentleman. Seems he made it for you.”

Geralt wants to barf, but Jaskier sends the vendor a simmering smile. “This partner… Business or romantic?”

“We have an understanding.”

Geralt suppresses a gag and wishes he could turn off his hearing. He wants to wrap his arms around Jaskier and steal him away. He deserves so much more than a half-baked pickup line and a shared bed.

“Hmm… just my type.” Jaskier says, low in a voice, and touches the vendor’s arm. “So how much?”

“Lend me an evening and you can have it for two marks.”

“A steal,” Jaskier says, “I’ll be back later to collect.” He throws a wink and drags Geralt to the next stall. He pulls him to an apothecary to purchase herbs for his potions. It’s one of the few permanent stores with a physical building, so they duck inside. Dimly lit and filled with the oppressive sent of white sage, Geralt adjusts to the new environment, lightening his breathing and widening his pupils. He gathers what he needs while Jaskier chatters at him. In a haze and unaware that Jaskier is speaking to him, Geralt interrupts. 

“Are you going to sleep with him?”

Jaskier blinks, stunned. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Geralt says, straightening his shoulders. 

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“When I’m the one who has to rescue you from his vengeful spouse,” Geralt retorts, bitterness in his voice, “yes, it is my business.”

“They have an understanding,” he defends.

Geralt hums. “You’ve never heard that before.”

Jaskier’s mouth pops open, hurt, and he leaves Geralt in silence. He goes to where the counter-girl stands and starts a friendly conversation with her. 

Geralt stays still as what he assumes are emotions wash over him. Anger tightens his muscles and heats his face while sadness and disappointment swirl in his gut, turning it cold. Jealousy curls his fingers, then he shoves it into the back of his mind, loosening his body. He goes on automatic and picks the rest of the supplies he needs, then goes to the counter for purchase. 

Jaskier leans over and tucks a piece of the employee’s hair behind her ear. She blushes and looks up at him through her lashes. 

“You have the most wondrous hair,” Jaskier says. 

“Really?” She asks, eager to take the compliment. “You think so?”

“Yes, my lovely. It highlights those eyes of yours,” Jaskier says, cupping his palm near her cheek. She giggles and leans into his touch. 

Geralt tenses again, throws coin purse on the counter and walks out the door, leaving them open-mouthed and confused. He walks with purpose to the inn. He plans to gather his things, get Roach from the stable, and set off to the next village. If Jaskier wants to start a new life here, then let him. He stomps through the dusty roads, too caught up in his own thoughts to notice he’s taken the wrong turn and landed himself in the middle of a seedier section of the town. He passes a gambling den and contemplates sitting for a game of Gwent, but he doesn’t have much coin and can’t afford to lose it. Two houses over sex workers lounge on the porch, calling out to people, promising an escape. That sounds like what Geralt wants, and perhaps it’s worth the lost coin, but first he needs a bath. He might pay for it, but even he doesn’t want to smell horse and sweat the entire time. 

Geralt backtracks and enters the inn with a better plan in mind. He finds the inn owner, rents their room for an additional night, and orders a bath. With no coin for tomorrow, he’ll have to check the village’s notice board or go elsewhere to get a contract. It’ll be his normal life. Well, normal before Jaskier. Strange how he became part of Geralt’s every day so fast. 

He goes up to their room, and the stench of Jaskier covers every surface. His flowery perfume lingering in the air and his natural earthy scent emanating from his bag and the bedsheets. Anger and frustration fuel his veins, but it’s broken when the inn staff comes in with fresh bath water. They set a large wooden trough in an open space and more people pour in with water until it’s full. Geralt thanks them, shuts the door, and strips off his clothes. Armed with soap, a washcloth, and a dry towel, he starts his bath. He sinks into the hot water, groaning with relief. 

“Fuck,” he mutters and dips his head under the water. He finishes the actual bath part and moves on to relaxing. Geralt thinks on his next activity, eager to lose himself in a wet pussy or maybe even an asshole if they have male sex workers willing to bed a Witcher. He wants their muscles to clench around his cock as he sinks deep inside them and the sting of their nails dragging down his back. He wants to hear their pants, moans, and screams of pleasure. Geralt wants to get lost in servicing them so well they lay limp, spent, and satisfied afterward unable to come up with a complete sentence. He doesn’t notice Jaskier’s return until he’s at the other side of their door and opening it. He doesn’t bother acknowledging him because the furious expression on his face says he’ll do the work. 

“You,” Jaskier points, “what the actual fuck?”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Geralt says, flicking a hand in the warm water. 

Jaskier gives a dry laugh. “Your behavior. It’s baffling and, dare I say, rude.”

“That’s not unusual,” he says, shrugging, “Many people find me rude.”

Jaskier shake his head. “Because they don’t how to read you. But I do, and I’m still lost. What is it that’s bugging you? Is it me? Is it something I’ve done?”

“I can’t fault you for being yourself.” Even to Geralt, his voice sounds cold. 

“Yet, you can’t look me in the eyes,” Jaskier says. “You’ve never minded my sexual habits in the past. What is it now? What makes this time different? Is it because he was a man?” Jaskier whispers the last part, his voice lacing with fear. 

“No,” Geralt says with a fierceness. “It’s not you, it’s all me.”

“Why do I feel like I’m bring broken up with right now?” Jaskier’s brow furrows. 

Geralt fidgets in his bath, uncomfortable on several levels: The water’s cooling, he’s naked and vulnerable during a spat, he’s unsure what’s happening between him and Jaskier, and he’s still horny as fuck from his imaginings. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says softly. “Tell me what’s on your mind, please.”

He stares at Jaskier in his silk clothes and soft features, waiting for a Witcher to pour his heart out to him. “No.” 

Jaskier clenches his jaw. “Fine.” He paces around the room. “Be that way! Be your stoic Witcher self and burry your feelings and pretend your don’t have them.”

“I don’t,” Geralt says. 

“That’s such bullshit!” Jaskier shouts. “I know you, Geralt. You get irritated when I play the lute too much, and hurt when people say awful things about Witchers. You grieve for the people you can’t save. I know you care.”

“No,” Geralt shouts back, standing, “stop projecting your human emotions onto me. I cannot love the way you can. You want me to be this hero, but I’m just not!”

Jaskier invades his personal space, so they’re nose to nose. “You’re wrong.”

Geralt grabs his shoulders and says, “Don’t make me into something I’m not. It will only hurt you.” He emphasizes the last word. 

Jaskier fumes ready to argue, then his eyes flick down and his expression changes. 

“What?” Geralt asks, confused, letting go of him. 

“You’re naked,” Jaskier responds, giving up on modesty and stares at Geralt’s half-hard cock. The spicy scent of lust emanates from Jaskier and shatters any anger Geralt held. “You have,” Jaskier swallows, “the most gorgeous cock.”

Geralt makes a dismissive sound. “Flattery won’t get you out of this argument.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t a compliment, it’s a fact,” Jaskier says, his cheeks blushing. “I’m an expert on the topic.”

Geralt laughs. “What do you know about cock?”

“Plenty. I have one and I’ve quite the skill for sucking them.”

“Prove it.” The words are out before he can stop them, and he blinks his eyes in surprise at his own boldness. Does he even want this? His cock twitches under Jaskier’s heated gaze. Yes. He craves the wet heat of his mouth and his tongue on his sensitive head. 

Jaskier kneels beside the tub, now eye level with his cock. He rests a hand on his thigh, tentative with his touch. Geralt’s skin burns and wants more. Jaskier gazes up at him, looking for confirmation. Great nods and Jaskier curls his fingers around the base of him. Yes, that’s so good. Friction pulls at the skin as Jaskier moves his hand and Geralt groans. Nerves sparkle and blood rushes to soothe them, engorging his member in record time. 

“Stunning,” Jaskier says, “Look at you, unraveling under my touch. Bet you taste incredible.”

“You should find out,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier smirks. “Hmm, not yet.” He moves his hand up and down, twisting at the top to give Geralt that sweet torture. 

“Tease.”

Jaskier’s mischievous eyes flick up at him. “You have no idea.”

“I’d rather you just get on with it,” Geralt says. His skin chills where the water evaporates off of it, and he’s desperate to have that heat. 

Jaskier shake his head. “That’s so not what this gorgeous cock deserves.” He leans to the side to dip his hand into his bag and retrieves a bottle of oil. “Get out of the tub,” he demands, then throws the dry towel at him. 

Geralt obeys, drying off and waiting for the next instruction. 

“Lean on the bed. It’ll be easier if you’re standing.” Jaskier strips off his doublet to reveal a thin camisole. He kneels in front of him again and Geralt reaches behind himself to hand Jaskier a pillow. He places it under his knees. “Thank you.” Geralt accepts with a nod. 

Jaskier slicks his hand with oil and wraps it around his fully hard cock. Geralt closes his eyes, letting the sensations take over. Jaskier’s calloused finger tips send a thrill through him and he wishes that he’d grip tighter. Reading his mind, Jaskier does so, and goes faster working him well. Yes, yes. Geralt hums his pleasure. 

“Yes, let me hear you,” Jaskier says, “Tell me how it feels. Tell me how you need this.”

Geralt tips his head back. “Faster.”

Jaskier picks up the speed, focusing his attention on the sensitive bit under his head and using his other hand to massage his balls. Fuck, that’s good. Geralt lets out a heavy breath. 

“I need,” Geralt starts and Jaskier waits for him to catch his breath, “I need your mouth.”

“Like this?” he asks, leaning to touch the tip of his tongue to his slit. 

Precum leaks from him and Geralt gasps at the hint of heat and wetness. His hips seek more friction, but Geralt holds them back, not wanting to rush Jaskier. He rolls his tongue over his head then swipes underneath and makes his way down the shaft until he reaches the course hair at the bottom. He sucks at the skin there and Geralt grips the sheets. Jaskier leaves a red mark and nips at his thighs. 

“Enough teasing,” Geralt says, then adds, “please.”

Without warning, Jaskier takes him into his mouth. The heat engulfs him and he arches his back, accidentally pushing himself further into Jaskier’s throat. He takes it with grace as if he expected it. Jaskier moves on and off of him, taking more as he goes while his tongue keeps Geralt on edge. 

Geralt’s stomach tightens and his balls draw up toward his body. He craves release already, but needs this to last longer. He needs to feel everything Jaskier’s mouth can do. Jaskier takes him deeper and deeper while hallowing his cheeks. Geralt rests his hand on his head, encouraging him. He hits the back of Jaskier’s throat and moans. Jaskier does the same, and the vibration stimulates him even further. 

Jaskier pulls off. “Beautiful,” he says, voice husky. “So good for me. I’ve had dreams about this gorgeous prick: its taste, its weight in my mouth, and,” Jaskier pauses, “Its release.” He swallows him, giving no rest to Geralt's tight body. He holds onto his thighs, nails digging into the skin. Jaskier bobs, fucking his mouth with Geralt’s cock, and the grip in his hair tightens. 

Geralt’s heart races and pants while his body burns in pleasure. Jaskier's hot, wet mouth melts him and he wants more, but mostly he wants release. Tension curls in his gut and the sweet need warns him this will end soon. 

“I’m close,” Geralt tells Jaskier between moans. “Ah, fuck.” 

Jaskier smiles around his cock and wags his tongue to torture him more. He grips his balls, twirling them in his hand while he lets Geralt’s head hits the back of his throat. He deep-throats him, clenching the muscles to enhance the feeling. 

Geralt screams, “UHHNNg, fuck,” then spills. 

Jaskier swallows all he has to give, stimulating him through the end of his orgasm until over-sensitivity strikes. Jaskier takes him out of his mouth with a wet pop. They pant and Geralt lays on the bed, out of his mind. 

“Tell me that was the best blowjob you’ve ever received,” Jaskier says, wiping the corner of his mouth. He gives Geralt a cocky look, crooked smile and all. 

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, not willing to give him the satisfaction yet. 

“I’m taking that as confirmation,” Jaskier chirps. 

Geralt snorts, “Go ahead.” He threads his fingers through Jaskier’s soft hair. “And thank you.”

He beams. “You’re welcome, my dear. Now, can we agree I’m always right?”

Geralt laughs, too relaxed to do more.


	5. Come Home Early from Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> filthy smut and some feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes my friends, it's been forever. Despite how long this chapter took me to write, I'm not mad at it. I hope you enjoy it and if you have any suggestions for future fics, leave a comment

“Nothing takes you out like sex,” Jaskier says. He lies on his side, watching Geralt revel in his afterglow. 

Geralt opens an eye, ready to refute him. 

“Geralt,” he starts in an admonishing tone. “I’ve seen you post-hunt, post-town beating, post-traveling for days and still push through, but get one orgasm in you and you sleep like the dead.”

The Witcher huffs and closes his eye. 

Jaskier sighs, “You always choose the weirdest times to rest.”

“I just got my dick sucked. It’s a great time to rest.” Geralt adjusts his shoulders to get even comfier in the bed and prove a point. 

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, his voice sharp. “That’s always what a sex partner wants to hear.”

“We’re not partners.”

Silence. Geralt opens his eyes to see Jaskier staring at him. “Fuck off,” he says it forcefully so that it prickles down Geralt’s spine — same as how his nerves do when a monster appears directly behind him and they’ve yet to make eye contact. 

“Sucking my dick doesn’t make you my boyfriend,” Geralt reasons. His chest clenches and all the wrong words are coming out of his mouth, yet he can’t stop them. He sees the way they affect Jaskier: His slumped shoulders, glassy eyes, flared nostrils, and clenched fists. He’s ready to fight, and Geralt doesn’t know who this fight will kill Jaskier or himself. 

Jaskier’s eyes narrow into angry slits. “What am I to you then?”

All Geralt’s previous comfort burns. The quiet sizzles between them and Geralt’s teeth grind. His skin feels too tight on his bones, as if bending a limb will cause it to split and tear. He risks it and rubs a hand over his face and mutters to himself, “Why did I have to be naked?”

Jaskier wraps his fingers over Geralt’s wrists and gently pulls them away from his face. “Stop hiding from me. Please answer my question. What am I to you?”

Geralt stares at the ceiling and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s still damp from the bath, and the evaporating water chills him. 

“I let a lot of things go,” Jaskier whispers, “But this… this matters.”

Geralt is sure his entire self is being crushed by the universe or maybe destiny. Flat and hallow, he finally responds. “I don’t know how to matter to anyone.” 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” He says, carefully, picking at his calluses instead of making eye contact to give Geralt space. “I was once where you are. No one cared what I did as long as I followed their rules. I could have replaced myself with a potted plant and they wouldn’t have noticed. Remind me to tell you about the time I actually did it and got away with it.” He smiles, then shakes his head and finds Geralt’s gaze. “It’s easy to matter to someone; scary as hell, but not difficult. I know you’re capable. I know this is something you want. You just need to push past the fear.”

“Witchers don’t feel fear,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier gives him an annoyed look. They stare at each other for several seconds and Jaskier breaks the contact, opting to lie down. He focuses on the ceiling, same as Geralt. “Why’d you have to be naked?” He mutters.

Geralt snorts. They stay like that until the summer day heats his skin, and he’s a touch grateful for the lack of clothes because otherwise, he’d be sweating. He turns his head toward Jaskier and studies his profile: Jaskier’s soft skin, delicate features, and intense blue eyes. Then he sees the man who treats his wounds, sings his praises, and fights for him. He takes a breath and lets words flow again. “You are my friend… Most days.” 

It’s Jaskier’s turn to snort. Geralt ignores it and keeps going. 

“Then other days, you’re the only one who sees me. You see my blood-stained hands, shit-smeared hair, and black eyes and you tell me to take a bath, but you like me and want me to stay. Everyone’s care for me is conditional, and that’s supposed to be every Witcher’s story. Yet, there’s you, caring… all the time.”

Jaskier snuggles closer and tucks a piece of hair behind Geralt’s ear. His mouth curves in a soft smile and for once in his life says nothing. 

Geralt takes a deep breath and says the thing he only admits to himself in the middle of the night, out loud. “You are more than a friend to me.” Blood rushes in his ears, deafening his surroundings to everything but Jaskier, who hasn’t said a word yet. He waits, stews in his confession—hands limp. This fight killed him, he decides. He can no longer deny his heart’s pull toward the person beside him. 

Jaskier presses his thumb to Geralt’s bottom lip and runs it along the edge. “This mouth,” he says under his breath, then catches Geralt’s gaze. “Can say such sharp words… yet it can heal their wounds.”

“What are you thinking?” Geralt asks, searching Jaskier’s face for any kind of reaction to the words that he’s guarded for years. 

“That we missed lunch,” he responds. His hand flutters over his stomach. 

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “No, about what I said.”

Jaskier hums and cups the side of Geralt’s face. “I love you too, my White Wolf.”

Birds chirp outside and Geralt lies still, frozen, his brain trying to process, and Jaskier continues to chatter as if nothing occurred. 

“You think they still have leftovers? I’m thinking of getting a spot of stew with some bread. Perhaps, I’ll be able to play for my food, add a touch of atmosphere to that drab dining room. No one knows how to entertain these days—”

“You love me?” Geralt interrupts when his brain catches up.

“Dear,” Jaskier says, tilting his head to the side as if to say ‘oh, honey’, “yes, that is what I said.”

Geralt shifts to catch Jaskier by the wrist before he exits the bed. “How long?”

“Do you remember,” he starts, sitting upright and crossing his arms over his lap, “when we visited that town outside Kaedwen… Hagge, I believe? The day before you had a tough hunt and didn’t want to admit it. And I, the unaware flower I am, was complaining and whining. Somehow, you decided not to kill me on the spot. That night you let me stitch your wounds and you fell asleep in my arms.”

Geralt gapes. “That was four years ago.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums. “That’s right. Time sure does blur when you travel with a Witcher.”

“Why tell me now?”

“You seemed ready to hear it and I’m tired of keeping it a secret,” he pauses, then smirks, “well, a secret from you. Everyone else knows how I feel about you on sight.”

“That doesn’t stop them from taking you to bed.”

Jaskier’s face falls. “Because I asked them to. Do not blame me for seeking comfort.”

Geralt put his palms on his eyes and sighs. “I keep saying the wrong things.” 

“Yeah, but you’re being honest and that’s enough for me to stay.” Jaskier rubs Geralt’s elbow and lowers his hands away from his face, then threads their fingers. “Also, sometimes, I may do it on purpose.” Jaskier winces, then rushes through his words. “You get all mad and invade my space and if you’re pissed enough, you’ll put your hands on me… I might find it super hot.”

Geralt blinks, furrows his brow, then laughs and laughs even more at Jaskier’s confusion. “We’re so fucked up.” They laugh together. Once calm, Geralt says, “You don’t have to anger me for me to touch you.”

“Instead, I’ll ask you to give me sword lessons.” Jaskier lays to reach his dagger on the side table. 

Geralt quirks his lips and uses his quick reflexes to climb atop Jaskier and pin his wrists above his head. “Would you like a lesson now?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen in surprise and Geralt can hear his fast heartbeat. “You have me at a disadvantage here,” he says, low in his voice. 

Geralt brushes his mouth near his ear. “I always do.”

“Let go of my wrists and we’ll see if you’re right.” Jaskier smiles. “I bet my career I can make you weep.”

Geralt bares his teeth and goosebumps travel his skin. “Big talk from a man whose righteous anger can dissipate at the mere sight of my cock.”

Jaskier laughs. “You have no idea what I can do. But sure, go ahead, teach me something, Witcher.”

“When it comes to swordplay, I do it rough. You sure you’re ready for that?”

“Liar,” Jaskier challenges despite the warm shiver the words caused. “That line only works on people who haven’t seen you fight. You’re graceful and intentional with each move you make.”

Geralt shrugs. “Perhaps both of things can be true.” He drags his teeth along the sensitive, soft skin behind Jaskier’s ear. “Care to find out?”

“Melitele, yes!” 

“Okay, you’ll need to warm up first. Can’t have your muscles cramping.” Geralt releases Jaskier’s wrists and molds his hands to his arms, moving his thumb in large circles over the muscles. Increasing the pressure, he makes his way to Jaskier’s shoulders and works out a tight spot under a shoulder blade from his lute. Jaskier hums and closes his eyes. Geralt moves him to his side, so he can take off his doublet. He pulls his arm through the sleeve and does the same with the other side. Geralt puts his bare wrist to his mouth and sucks. He feels his pulse and the way it spikes when his tongue soothes the bite. He travels down Jaskier’s arm, nipping and kissing along the way, then does the same with the other arm. Sliding his hands over the silk of Jaskier’s chemise, he contemplates ripping it to get to his nipples faster but decides against it. With Jaskier’s help, he lifts the shirt over his head, then guides him into laying again, so he gets to what he wants.

Geralt plays with the sensitivity of his ribs, ghosting his fingers over the area until Jaskier bites his lip and little bumps follow his fingers. 

“I was promised a lessen,” Jaskier says, impatient as ever. “Not a tease.”

“Then be ready to learn,” Geralt responds and takes a nipple into his mouth. He laves over it with his tongue, then nips with his teeth. Jaskier arches into his touch and grips the sheets. 

“Finally,” he says. 

Geralt huffs then gives attention to the other nipple. He lets his senses take over and quiets all the loud noise in his head that wants to dissect every word of their conversation. This is about making Jaskier feel good; they’ll talk about the rest later… or if Geralt has his way, never. 

Flush underneath him, Jaskier moves with Geralt. His fast breaths in time with the wet kisses Geralt plants along his sternum and stomach. When Geralt calls him forward, Jaskier follows, lifting his hips to remove his trousers. Geralt works his fingers and palms down Jaskier’s ribs to his hips. He bites at the tender stretch of skin covering the jutting bone, making Jaskier squirm. 

“Still,” Geralt directs. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes and blows a breath, lifting the hair on his forehead. “Easy for you to say. You’re not being attacked by a master Witcher.” 

Geralt stops his ministrations and props himself on his hands. “Maybe this is too advanced a lesson for you.”

Oh,” Jaskier half-laughs, half-groans, “You’re so gonna pay for that.” He pushes against Geralt’s shoulder, encouraging him to lie on his back, so Jaskier can take over. 

Geralt shakes his head and stays planted. “Let me take care of you,” he says, then kisses Jaskier’s bent knee. “One of the first things they teach Witchers is how to read a monster’s body language, so we know when they’ll attack and spot their weaknesses.” Geralt studies Jaskier, his quick bitten lip, mussed hair, and skin peppered with little red welts from his teeth. “A good swordsman also knows how to read their opponent. Most people will tell you everything you need to know about them with their first few moves. Tell me, bard,” he kisses his stomach near Jaskier’s neglected cock, which presses against his smalls, “what do my moves say about me.”

Geralt dips his head into Jaskier’s groin, flattens his tongue against his balls and follows the length of his cock, then stops. A wet line of saliva and pre-cum sticks the cloth to him. Jaskier moans, then lets out a shaky breath to steady his voice. 

“That you’re a fucking tease.”

Geralt hums as he makes his way back up to Jaskier. “Am I teasing?” He drops his hips against Jaskier’s, grinding his naked cock against Jaskier’s clothed one. Jaskier’s eyes roll back into his head and his member twitches, excited. “Or doing exactly what it takes,” Geralt continues, circling his hips to gain more friction and nipping Jaskier’s earlobe, “to get you,” he kisses the corner of his mouth, “where I want you.”

“Where’s that?” Jaskier breathes. 

“Wet, writhing, and breathless beneath me,” he answers. Geralt kisses Jaskier, a quick soft peck at first, then he dives deeper. Their mouths follow one another, delighting in the sensations, the pressure, the soft skin. He licks at the seam of Jaskier’s lips, asking for entrance. Jaskier accepts, just as eager as Geralt to taste. Their kisses grow wild and sloppy, but the heat burns between them, and they plan to let the fire rage.

Chapped and swollen, they release one another, gasping for air, and Geralt nuzzles Jaskier’s neck while he runs his hands over Geralt’s scarred skin. “You out of moves?” Jaskier asks. 

“No, I’m giving you a turn. What’s your counterattack? Give me your best,” Geralt challenges. His voice gruff and calm, hiding his climbing pulse. No one can take him apart quite like Jaskier.

Jaskier kisses along one of Geralt’s cheekbones. “You should get me naked first.” He looks down at the small bit of cloth still on himself and waits, expectant. Geralt takes the suggestion and dips his fingers under the waistband, skimming it until a hand is at either side of Jaskier’s hips. He pulls the smalls off in one smooth motion. 

“What’s next?” Geralt prods, while raking his eyes over Jaskier’s naked body, taking in his peaked nipples and proud erection. He’s seen bits and pieces before, but not all together or when it’s his for the taking. He wraps his hands around Jaskier’s calves and pulls him forward. “You’re running out of time. Speed is important if you want to win.”

Jaskier drapes his arms over Geralt’s shoulders. “Oh, I am already winning. Can’t you tell?” He wraps his legs around Geralt’s hips and lifts his own. The contact drags a moan out of them both. “Fuck.”

Geralt wraps his hand around both of them and grinds against Jaskier. Their pre-cum eases the way, but it’s not quite enough. The friction causes Jaskier to shiver, and he kisses Geralt’s jaw to get his attention. 

“We’re gonna need oil,” Jaskier points out. “There’s some in my bag. Would you get it, my love?”

Geralt pauses at the nickname, but nods and leaves Jaskier with a kiss. He walks to their stuff and feels Jaskier’s eyes on his ass. He picks up the first bag he sees and unbuckles it. 

“That’s my clothes bag. It’s in the other one,” Jaskier says from the bed. “Geralt, never keep your oils with your clothes; it only leads to disaster.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and searches the other bag while Jaskier tells him an elaborate story about a bottle of hair oil and his finest silk doublet. He stalks toward the bed, not listening to Jaskier while he uncorks the bottle, dips two fingers inside, and places it on the nightstand for future use. Geralt straddles him and lifts his hips to gain access to his sweet little pucker. He swipes his finger over the muscle. 

“Hush,” he says.

Jaskier quiets and stares at Geralt with large pupils. He squirms and gasps as Geralt stimulates all the sensitive nerves around his hole. “More,” Jaskier demands. 

Geralt gives him what he wants, slipping one finger inside. He crooks it to search for the spot inside Jaskier that’ll make him fall apart. Hot and slick, Geralt pushes further in, then pulls out, dragging his finger against his inner wall. Jaskier squeezes his finger and begs for another finger. 

“Please,” he says

“You’re so tight,” Geralt says, his breath coming out in huffs. “Be patient.”

Jaskier breathes a laugh that ends in a moan as Geralt finds a sensitive spot inside him. “Yeah, I don’t go in for that.”

Geralt kisses him, slipping his tongue into his mouth, tasting all that Jaskier offers. He circles the ring of muscle, loosening it for another finger. Geralt parts from him to say, “I’ll give you what you need.” He puts two inside and inserts them slowly, both to allow Jaskier’s body to adjust and to torture him with the slow, delicious slide. 

“You’re the worst,” Jaskier says. 

“Okay,” Geralt responds, tone matter of fact, “I could stop right now.” The lie slips out his mouth, easy, but Geralt knows the truth, it would hurt him to stop and he desperately wants to see Jaskier come. He needs to give him everything. 

Jaskier glares at him. “Don’t you dare.”

Geralt flashes a toothy grin and distracts Jaskier with another kiss and fast pumps of his fingers. He grips the oil bottle and maneuvers it to pour more over the hand inside Jaskier. He adds a third finger, scissoring and spreading them while Jaskier writhes and moans. 

“Yes! So good,” Jaskier says, bucking toward Geralt to get more. His body pulls at Geralt’s fingers, trying to make them part of himself. “NHNnMmmd,” Jaskier shouts when Geralt drags his fingers against his prostate. Jaskier grips the sheets tight in his hand and lifts the other to thread it through Geralt’s hair, pulling. A short growl encourages Jaskier to pull harder. In retaliation, Geralt plows his fingers into him, hitting his prostate just right. Jaskier’s cock leaks on his stomach, reddened with desire and so desperate for touch. 

“You want to cum, don’t you?” Geralt whispers in Jaskier’s ear. “To give up control and let bliss find you. It would feel so good cuming on my fingers.”

“Yes!” Jasper says, arching his back. He takes a breath, “But not yet. I want to cum on that gorgeous prick of yours. I’ve been dreaming about it for too long to have anything less.” 

Geralt freezes and takes a breath of his own. “Fuck,” he agrees and withdraws his fingers. Jaskier whines at the loss. “You ready?” Geralt asks he lines himself up with Jaskier’s body. 

He nods, and Geralt trusts him to know his limits. Jaskier’s puffed, stretched hole begs for Geralt’s cock and he obliges. After coating himself with oil, his head stretches Jaskier’s entrance. Geralt’s heart beats like a human’s and he has to grip his base to stop from cuming way too soon. Gods, how does he do this to him? 

“C’mon, I need you. Gonna give me what I need, right?” Jaskier says, tightening his legs’ hold on Geralt’s hips. 

He trusts all the way inside. Their bodies ignite, muscles tremble, and skin slickens. They need this, desire coursing through their veins. Geralt shifts his knees to get better traction, and he moves further inside and he moans.

“Told you I could get you to weep,” Jaskier smirks. 

Geralt hums, dismissive and ready to deliver payback. He arches his back to pull his cock out and bends to thrust inside again. He repeats his motion, bouncing Jaskier. Blunt fingernails dig into his back and Geralt pushes harder, delighting in every flex of Jaskier’s muscles. Burning from the inside out, they scramble to touch each other more. Their chests press together and Geralt latches his mouth onto Jaskier’s neck, licking the start of sweat from his skin. 

Geralt pulls a leg over his shoulder to pound deeper into him. Jaskier’s eyes roll into his head and he moans loud enough that everyone in the inn knows what they’re doing in here. Jaskier’s hands slip from their place on his back, resting instead on Geralt’s ribs.

“So big, so good,” Jaskier mutters. His eyelids shut and a little smile on his face. Geralt kisses the little dimple showing on his cheek. 

“You wanna turn over?” Geralt asks. 

“Sure,” he says. They adjust to allow Jaskier to get on all fours. 

Geralt slides inside him, the muscles squeezing him and it feels like the first time all over again. “You’re incredible.”

“Could say the same about you,” Jaskier says, breathy and wanting. “Now fuck me like you mean it, Witcher.”

With permission granted, Geralt gives him his best. He thrusts and retreats, fast and hard. They make a symphony of sinful sounds: skin slapping, wetness squelching, and moans filling out the rest. Geralt bites Jaskier’s shoulder and wraps his arms around his waist to pull him into his lap. He circles Jaskier’s hips, moving him, so his cock strokes his prostate with each pound. Jaskier reaches behind himself to grab ahold of Geralt’s hair and pull his mouth closer to his own. The angle is off, but the kiss is still hot and fuels their antics. 

Finally, Geralt graces Jaskier’s cock with attention. His hand wraps around him tight and he uses the dripping precum to drag more pleasure from him.

“So close,” Jaskier says, “need to…need to see you.”

Geralt pauses his ministrations and uses his strength to flip Jaskier and get them comfortable, face to face. Jaskier shudders at the show. Geralt slows his pace, giving Jaskier longer thrusts. He jacks Jaskier’s cock again. 

“This what you want?”

“Yes, yes, yes please, more,” Jaskier babbles. His hands scramble to touch more of Geralt: his back, his ribs, his stomach, and landing on his ass, squeezing. Jaskier giggles, “I could bounce a coin off that.”

Geralt stills. “Don’t you dare.”

Jaskier laughs more, “I won’t…probably.”

“You’re talking too much,” Geralt observes. He twists his hand along the edge of Jaskier’s head, silencing him. He moves inside him faster. Jaskier returns to babbling and screaming his name. “That’s what I like to hear,” he says, voice gruffer than usual. His balls tighten, warning him. He ups his game with Jaskier, trying to get him to cum first. He swipes his thumb over the top of his cock, loving the way it twitching in his hand and the heft. Jaskier’s been called an excellent lover for a reason.

“Need you,” Jaskier says, between moans. “So close.”

Geralt buries himself inside his tight, wet hole, giving everything. Sweat trickles down his back and Jaskier’s bangs paste to his forehead, damp. Through the hair and the light tan, Geralt can see the flush on Jaskier’s chest. They need this release soon. Geralt changes the angle to put his weight on his hand by Jaskier’s shoulder. The other hand still teases Jaskier’s cock. 

“There, there, there,” Jaskier chants. 

Geralt repeats his actions until thick spurts of white cum coat his hand. Jaskier screams through his orgasm, nails raking into Geralt’s skin. The pain and pleasure shove Geralt over the edge and he cums inside. Jaskier’s body milks Geralt for all he’s worth. Grunting and overwhelmed, he leads them through both their climaxes until over-sensitivity begs them to stop. 

“Fucking Melitele,” Jaskier breathes, “That was amazing.”

Geralt collapses beside him, too gone to answer. Some time passes and the drying cum starts to itch and bother. He rolls off the bed and forces himself to find a damp cloth from earlier. Geralt wipes himself off and does the same for Jaskier. 

Warm and satisfied, they lay in each other’s arms. 

“We need to do that again,” Jaskier announces. 

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees.

“So, are you actually going to teach me how to sword fight, or was that a euphemism for getting me in your bed?” Jaskier asks, his head resting on Geralt’s chest. 

Geralt sniffs. “Yeah, every Witcher’s companion needs to know how.”

“I thought Witchers didn’t have companions.” He lifts his head to gaze up at him. 

“And they aren’t supposed to love either, but yet…”

“But yet this one does,” Jaskier finishes the sentence and kisses Geralt.


End file.
